A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  I was much struck by the words I was hearing. I understood at last why the paintings were different in this place from what I had seen elsewhere: in these paintings the gods had been thrown over, the priests had gone into hiding, and the kings and other leaders had disappeared; ordinary people had instead risen and become visible, people to whom no one had paid any attention. “But can we possibly discover a tomb of such importance?” I said. “We are merely artists!”

  “This is the key to our strength,” Newberry replied. “We can read the paintings, discern the signs, and follow the guideposts. Believe me, my boy, I’ve worked with these people for a long time—Petrie being perhaps the most knowledgeable of them. They’ve been digging and digging, but in the end they are led by blind chance. This earth has been keeping its secrets for thousands of years—do you think a handful of Europeans can properly explore it in just a few years?”

  He fell silent, trying to catch his breath, while the mules kept struggling onward, the soft sand slipping beneath their hooves. Then a bell pealed. The sound gripped the desert and echoed across the silent blankness. More bells began to ring, and Newberry said confidently, “They’ve seen us.”

  “Who?” I asked, startled.

  “The monks at the monastery. They keep constant watch over the desert from their high tower. When they see any travelers they ring the bell for them, fearing that perhaps they are lost in the desert, or are about to be.”

  The walls of the monastery appeared suddenly, like something wrought from the landscape, solid and impregnable, absorbing the violence of the sandstorms, its stones bonded by the action of the sun’s heat. The pealing of the bells grew more impressive the closer we came to its source.

  “This is Dayr al-Barsha,” said Newberry, “one of the oldest monasteries in the world. The monks built it upon the footprints left by Christ when he passed through here fleeing from Palestine.”

  This land! Everyone had passed through here. Again Newberry had mentioned a prophet, a second one, and perhaps Akhenaten was a third, of a different sort. Why had God placed our island at such a remove?

  We dismounted before the vast gate. The muleteer was to leave with his beasts and come back for us at the end of the following day, according to Newberry’s request. The man agreed, demanding no payment.

  The monastery gate was fashioned out of the trunks of palm trees, which still retained their natural shape, having simply been split down the middle. An iron ring hung from it, on which ancient crosses were incised. Before Newberry could lift it the gate opened, its rusty hinges squeaking shrilly. From behind it a gray-haired monk emerged and went to him, greeting him by name. A reddish beard encircled his pale jaw. His features didn’t look Egyptian in the least—perhaps his long sojourn within the dark cells had given him this sallow complexion.

  We followed him inside, and he turned to welcome me, saying, “I am Brother George.” Newberry insisted upon maintaining his air of mystery, but I was overcome by the place. I followed the two of them without a word, studying the domed structures that surrounded the courtyard and the doves that had alighted in the center and were plucking their food from the sand. We arrived at a long corridor, on either side of which were low doors leading to small rooms. I learned later that they were the cells in which the monks lived, but that some of them were designated for guests of the monastery.

  “You’ll spend the night with us,” said the monk. “Our beds are rough and our food is humble, but we have good wine.”

  My cell was small, with nothing in it but a modest bed, a huge cross hanging on the wall, and a window overlooking the expanse of desert. I stared at the sand dunes, which spread out before me as far as the eye could see. I wondered how Jesus found his way through such a maze. Darkness fell, and the bells rang for evening prayers. I stayed in my room until prayers were over, and no one pressed us. We sat with the monks at a long wooden table, eating bread, cheese, and dates, and I drank a little of the wine. They spoke Arabic, English, Greek, and other languages, moving about the hall in their black cassocks. They drank a lot of wine; no doubt the cellars of the monastery were well stocked with it. Newberry was also imbibing with less than his usual restraint. Brother George put his hand upon his arm. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “They’ll be here tomorrow.” I didn’t care to ask what he meant—I wouldn’t get a straight answer in any case.

  I spent the night half-awake—the wind never stopped stirring the bells; I missed the sound of the river and the wolves’ desolation. At dawn I saw lines of monks, who had spread out all about the desert that surrounded the monastery, gathering firewood and looking for the heads of mushrooms buried in the sand. I went out into the courtyard. Monks were at work there as well, cleaning, making bread in a small oven, and tending the little farm adjacent to the monastery. They put as much energy into performing their tasks as they did into drinking wine.

  Newberry had awoken as well. He was standing and talking to Brother George, seeming anxious and tense. The higher the sun rose in the sky, the more uneasy he grew.

  The bells rang, and I realized that other travelers had appeared on the horizon. Newberry went with Brother George to the gate—it seemed as if they were waiting to identify the visitors. The rusty hinges creaked and the gate swung open. There were three Bedouins astride their camels, leading an additional camel with no rider.

  Turning to Newberry, Brother George said, “Didn’t I tell you? They’ve come on time.”

  They stood before the gate, shaking their legs pointedly; obediently, the camels folded their own legs and settled on the ground. The three men leapt from their backs and approached the entrance to the monastery, led by an old sheikh with a white turban and a thick beard, and clad in a heavy abaya of sheep’s wool in various shades. He shook hands with no one, merely placing his hand on each of our shoulders—it wasn’t a greeting so much as a demonstration of his good intentions. The other two stood respectfully behind him.

  “Welcome,” said Brother George. “Welcome, Sheikh Qindil. Welcome, men. Allow me to introduce my English friends.”

  He went ahead of all of us to a little hall in a corner of the courtyard. It was furnished with mats, and scattered to one side of these were small cushions in glowing desert colors. He began pouring tea into tiny pottery cups. I studied the face of the sheikh, who looked as though he had just stepped out of the Bible. He spoke a strong dialect of Arabic, answering Newberry’s persistent questions. Brother George kept reminding them of the agreement that had been contracted between them. I didn’t grasp the terminology very well, but I knew that they were talking about an undiscovered tomb in an unknown place. The more they talked, the more Newberry’s face brightened. At last Sheikh Qindil stood up. He looked at Brother George and said, “We’ll go now. We must get there before the daylight is gone.”

  Indicating us, Brother George said, “You are responsible for their welfare, Sheikh Qindil.”

  The sheikh put his hand upon his own neck and inclined his head, responding with a few rapid words. Brother George shook hands with the men, clapped me amiably on the shoulder, and bade me visit him again. We went out of the monastery gate. The camels were still crouched upon the ground, their jaws moving lazily. They gazed at us with their sad eyes. Newberry took me by the arm. Pointing to one of the beasts, he said, “You’ll ride this camel, Howard.”

  I took a step back in alarm. I had never before ridden such a strange animal. It seemed wild and untrustworthy. “Never fear,” said Newberry reassuringly. “In the desert children ride camels from the time they’re born.

  In a strained voice I replied, “I was not born in the desert.”

  “Riding a camel doesn’t require practice the way riding horseback does. Horses move their front legs and then their hind legs, and they go very quickly. Camels don’t do that. They put one foot forward, then follow it with the hind foot. Only one leg at a time is in motion, and they don’t have hooves—their feet are soft, which makes them proceed with a slow and measur
ed gait across the sand. Believe me, camels don’t sway a great deal, or give anyone much opportunity to fall off of them.”

  This exchange was conducted in English, but the Bedouins were smiling, as if they were following the gist of it. I wasn’t convinced, and each time the camels moved their jaws I felt more afraid. “First of all,” I insisted, “I want to know where we are going.”

  “Perhaps,” said Newberry, “to the greatest discovery of my life and yours. Come along; climb aboard, before the day is lost.”

  He went over to the other camel, raised his leg, and confidently straddled the creature’s raised back. The camel extended a foreleg and then a hind leg, and leaned a little to one side. It seemed to me that Newberry would roll off onto the ground on the other side, but the camel quickly stood up, lifting him high up on its back. Newberry stroked his thick beard and gestured silently to me that I should do as he had done. My heart was in my mouth as the camel lifted me up. I felt as though I was hanging suspended all alone in space. The Bedouin men laughed and pointed at me. From the monastery gate, Brother George called out, “May God bless all of you!”

  The camel began to walk slowly, while I rocked back and forth on it until my spine was all but dislocated. I needed to loosen my tensed muscles a little, and hold onto the wooden halter in front of me. Sheikh Qindil was leading us on the back of his own camel. The wind filled his abaya as if he was about to take flight. My clenched stomach began to relax, and the camel proceeded smoothly as if it was floating above the sand. I felt as though we might continue on a never-ending journey. A distant chain of mountains appeared and blocked the horizon, its colors shifting as we drew closer and closer. There were odd-looking rocks scattered about us, round and white, as if laid in this spot by immense birds. How could Newberry communicate with these men without Petrie finding out—or, indeed, without Fraser and Blackden finding out? It was clear all this had been arranged with the help of that mysterious monk.

  The desert changed color and became whiter, as if it had been covered with salt. We began to see limestone formations, and soon the earth was devoid of all forms of plant life. The camels’ pace slowed. We were surrounded on all sides by mountains, and grains of sand carried by the wind beat upon our faces.

  We stopped, finally, by the slope of a high mountain, and the camels lowered us, so at last I could jump down from mine and touch the earth once more. I felt dizzy, as if my feet were not firmly placed upon the ground, but I proceeded to climb the rocks behind the others. It was not a constant ascent; at intervals we descended and had to circle around all the rocks blocking the way. I was panting and Newberry was breathing hard, but that didn’t stop him from springing over the rocks, following the old Bedouin, who stopped at last, pointing at the hollowed-out rock.

  “This is the place,” he said.

  We gathered and all looked down. There was a low corridor in the heart of the mountain, carved into the rock by sharp pickaxes. Newberry didn’t wait for any further explanation from the sheikh. He hurried down toward the dim cavern. I hastened after him. We were in a low passageway, its walls smooth and polished: a mountain of marble, quiet and waiting. I felt the walls, which were coated with fine dust, behind which were bas-reliefs. Newberry kept going deeper, but I stood mesmerized before the walls at the entrance. The Bedouin sheikh stopped and regarded us, smiling as if we were two children amusing ourselves. One of the Bedouin who served him brought an unlit torch, which gave off a scent of pitch. We went a bit farther into the dark passageway. The man ignited the torch, and the place lit up. The carving on the wall showed clearly, a low relief with no colors. I brushed away the dust, holding my breath, my heartbeat coming faster. I asked him to bring the torch closer.

  An important personage was seated upon his chair, watching the crowded scene that was taking place before him. There was a king’s body in its shroud, arms crossed upon the chest, clutching the scepter in one hand and a lotus flower in the other. On his head was the double crown, for the two realms: Upper and Lower Egypt. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of men pulling him with ropes. Not a living king, then; no living king would be pulled by ropes, and certainly no living king so immense that the men beneath him would look like a swarm of ants. What everyone in this splendid scene was pulling must have been an enormous statue.

  The panel was full of details, dozens of them. It was difficult to read all the symbols in them by the flickering light. Was this a statue of the apostate king, Akhenaten? The face was indistinct; the image was chipped, and many features had come away from the body. On the lower part of the wall there were piles of marble fragments. I took out some paper and began to sketch the contours of the panel with trembling fingers. All at once, however, Newberry returned. He snatched the torch from the Bedouin’s hand and dashed back into the passageway. Darkness enveloped me, and I could no longer make out any details. Was it possible that discovering a tomb could be this easy?

  I tried to follow the light source; the passage grew narrower, and there were more piles of rock. Newberry was standing before the last pile, which blocked everything else. In a strained voice he said, “I have a feeling it lies behind these rocks.” I turned and studied the walls, looking for any kind of sign. Impassive, they gave nothing away.

  “We have to go now,” said Newberry. “But first this Bedouin must swear to tell no one.”

  He hurried off, and I turned to follow him. He stopped at the front of the passage and entered into an uneasy exchange with the Bedouin sheikh. Newberry got out some money and they proceeded to negotiate. I took this as an opportunity to go back and work on my drawing. By the time they concluded their discussion I had completed the basic outlines. I would have to come back another time in order to finish the work, but now Newberry was very ill at ease.

  “Draw a detailed map of this place,” he commanded me as we stood at the entrance. “I don’t want us to lose our way when we come back here.”

  This time he let me catch my breath as I went over the layout of the site. It would be necessary for me to be able to distinguish this mountain from all the rest, to ascertain where the opening was located, and to set down a visual representation of the path that would lead us through this desert.

  We commenced the journey back. The air had grown cold as the sun began to set behind the mountain, and the sand took on a somber cast, a pale reddish hue. Newberry, lost in thought, did not speak the whole way. “How can he be so certain?” I wondered.

  We found the mules awaiting us by the monastery wall. The Bedouins gestured their farewells to us, placing their hands upon their chests and bowing their heads. They took their camels and went back into the desert. We had to complete the rest of our journey in the dark. The muleteer led us as we made our way through the shadows. We were very close to one another. Newberry was breathing a little more easily now. I said to him, “But how could such a king be buried in that isolated place?”

  “He was buried in secret,” replied Newberry with conviction. “His followers chose this distant place so that his enemies wouldn’t go there and desecrate his body.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We must find a patron who finances these excavations. I shall contact Lord Amherst at once. First of all, we must make sure . . .”

  His voice began to fade from my hearing. I no longer heard anything but the hum of the insects buzzing about my head, stinging me—I hadn’t got used to this yet. My day had been long and tiring. Feeling the cold air from the fields penetrate my bones, I shivered from head to toe. I don’t know how we arrived, or how I managed to get down off the mule, or how I rode in the mule-drawn cart. I heard Newberry say, “We shall go at once to Minya. I must find a way to get a message out of the country, even if it means sending Amherst a long telegram.”

  “I want to go back to Beni Hassan,” I said feebly.

  “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “It’s the Christmas holidays. We shall rejoice in the occasion together.”

  “I’m exhausted. I w
ant nothing more than to return to the tomb—it’s the only secure place for me.”

  He snorted. “I don’t wish to go back tonight. I want to arrange my communiqués.”

  “I’ll go back on my own.”

  It was odd to find Idris sleeping in his boat, as if he were waiting for me, and to hear the sound of the wolf howling on the opposite bank, greeting me. By now Idris was used to my peculiar behavior, and had no objection to going out on the water at night. I was shivering, my face drenched in sweat. Idris supported my trembling frame, climbing the rocky slope with me and settling me on my rough bed. He also started a fire, as various images obtruded upon my vision. I no longer knew where I was. I cried out, trying to ask for help from my mother or father, or even my aunt, but there was no one to reach out a helping hand to me. I heard Idris’s voice saying, “You’re feverish, my young foreigner.”

  I was swamped in a sea of perspiration. I could no longer see or hear anyone. Everything had gone dark. I don’t know how much time went by, but when I opened my eyes it was day, and a red-faced doctor was in attendance. He must have been angry, since he had been obliged to come from the other side of the river. “You’ve got malaria,” he announced. “Take this medicine and keep to your bed. Your temperature will rise, and you’ll be feverish. It will go down a bit in the daytime, but it will come back at night. Whatever possesses you, to stay in a place like this?”

  I subsided once again into a miasma of heat and delirium. I opened my eyes to find Idris attempting to press the pills into my mouth. Once more I sank into darkness. The night was long, the tomb was full of smoke, and the wolf was watching me with its glowing eyes. Perhaps it had entered the tomb and run its tongue over my face—my features were drenched in its saliva, and its odor filled the place.